


The Greatest Thing He'll Ever Learn

by LiraelClayr007



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (because there always has to be SOME fluff), Angst, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Clint Barton's Farm, Deaf Clint Barton, First Kiss, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 10:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21390643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiraelClayr007/pseuds/LiraelClayr007
Summary: Bucky hadn’t expected anything like the farmhouse. He’d expected an out of the way safehouse somewhere, some run-down apartment or overly cheerful suburban nightmare. But Natasha had landed the quinjet in idyllic farmland, big white farmhouse and faded red barn perfectly framed by the wide blue sky. He’d always just thought of Iowa as “one of those states in the middle.” But actually, Iowa was...beautiful. Or this part of it, at least. He stood at the bottom of the ramp, duffle bag slung biting into his shoulder, and he felt something loosen inside him. Not enough, not yet. But it was a start.***In which Bucky's having trouble adjusting to life with the Avengers and Clint offers to take him to his farm for a little time off...and they both find more than they were expecting.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 35
Kudos: 224





	The Greatest Thing He'll Ever Learn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pherryt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pherryt/gifts).

> For pherryt, who talked me through this when I was at my end, listened to me complain when I was bad at writing kisses, laughed at me when this got _so much longer_ than I'd ever expected, and even found the perfect song lyrics for a title. This would probably be forever in my WIP folder without you.

He’s not sure what to do with this. There’s summer grass against his naked back, pressing criss-crossed lines like scars into flesh that won’t actually scar anymore. The warm sun washes over his eyelids, the resulting red glow making him feel like he’s enveloped in a glowing cocoon. And the _smells_. Grass and trees and woodsmoke and cows from the next farm over and not a single scent of exhaust or gasoline or anything else humans use to pollute the earth. There’s a slight tang of metal, but it’s just from his arm, and that’s so much a part of him that he barely registers it anymore. But since he’s cataloging…

Coming here, it had been a good idea. (Not that he’ll tell Steve, he’s got a big enough head already. Fuck, they still call him Captain _America_. How can anyone wear a title like that?) But he’s still not sure what to do with himself, not being on high alert for threats every second. How can he feel on edge about feeling relaxed?

He _wants_ to relax. He _wants_ to find something normal in this increasingly abnormal world.

He likes the feel of grass against his skin.

There’s a thunk not far away and he jolts upright, heart pounding but eyes and ears coolly scanning, assessing. Of course it’s just Barton with his bow, the thunk was the arrow hitting the target. _You’re not here alone, remember?_

He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore. But he’s not sure he’s Bucky Barnes yet, either.

“Alright, Barnes?” Barton’s on the other side of the meadow, but he doesn’t shout; his voice is low, perfectly pitched for Bucky’s supersoldier hearing. Impressive. Most people don’t get that.

Bucky lifts a hand in answer. Honestly he’s not sure if anything about him is “alright.” But being out here might be making him a little better.

It had been four days ago, in the Tower, when everything went to shit.

He’d been sitting at the counter in the communal kitchen, the steam from his cup of coffee filling his senses. Most everyone else was asleep. Steve was working out. Natasha was around somewhere, being mysterious; he’d seen her from the corner of his eye a few times. She was a sort of known-unknown, someone to watch for but not to worry about too much. He liked her, as much as he liked anyone. He shook his head, trying to clear that thought. _It’s okay to like people_, he told himself. _You are not the Soldier anymore_.

He was so lost in his head, repeating those thoughts over and over, that he didn’t hear the elevator ping, didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, didn’t hear the soft conversations of those making their way into the room for coffee and breakfast. He heard them, but they were secondary, barely registered. So when the stool next to him scraped across the floor, he just reacted.

No thought, just action.

He turned and grabbed the offending person by the throat, lifting him a few inches off the floor. His metal hand squeezed.

And then he saw it was Clint Barton, face turning red, eyes wide, clawing at the hand gripping his throat.

He dropped Barton, but by then it was too late. The others were trying to figure out what they could do to stop him--Tony was remotely calling a suit, Wanda had her hands up to call on her power, Sam looked like he was going to try to fight him bare handed. Bruce looked like he was trying to stay calm, either that or he was trying to calm everyone else. Natasha had a blade in her hand, Thor his hammer.

And Steve. He got between Bucky and everyone else, a hopeless look on his face.

It was Clint who brought everyone down. He stood up, rubbing his throat, and smiled an easy smile at Bucky. “Sorry Barnes,” he said. His voice was like gravel. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Things weren’t calm, exactly, but he didn’t feel like the entire room wanted to throw him out the window anymore. Maybe only half of them. Progress.

Bucky’s hand itched to hold the handle of a knife. He didn’t really need a weapon for protection--he _was_ a weapon--but he always felt safer with a blade. Even with his out of time, half-brainwashed brain he knew it would be a bad time to reach for anything, though. So he stood still, watching. Listening.

Wondering if it would ever be better.

He’d tried to fit in. Tried to be a member of the team. But every time he looked at Steve, saw those eyes filled with equal parts hope and disappointment…

“Buck,” Steve said. And there was the disappointment, crushing Bucky with just one syllable. “I think...I think maybe you need some time off. Not just time off, but time away. From me.”

Bucky looked up, and in Steve’s eyes he could see what he hadn’t before, that Steve _knew_ he was making everything so much more difficult even as he tried to make things better.

So he nodded; it was just a small thing, but he felt muscles relax all over the room at the slight movement of his head.

Steve put a hand on his shoulder. The one that was completely flesh--even Steve avoided the metal arm. “We’ll find somewhere. Maybe Tony--”

“I know a place.”

Startled again, Bucky looked up to see Barton looking right back into his eyes. 

There’s something between him and the sun. Bucky slits his eyes and sees Barton standing over him, bow in hand, quiver slung onto his back. “I’m heading back to the house. I need to check in with the others in New York, then I’ll get dinner going. You coming or staying to soak up some more sun, Sleeping Beauty?”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment, then finally says, “You’re a terrible cook.”

Barton barks a laugh. “You’ve noticed. But I haven’t seen you volunteering your services.”

“I’ll cook. Anyone could cook better than you. Probably even Stark.”

He looks offended, but he’s laughing as he turns to walk across the meadow, toward the farmhouse. “Hey! I’m not _that_ bad.”

“Whatever you say.”

Barton didn’t offer his arm to help him stand up. Steve would have--Steve keeps treating him like he’s broken. Watching Barton disappear into the distance, gratitude washes over Bucky. It’s not just the fresh air, the wide open space. He’s starting to feel like a whole person.

Bucky hadn’t expected anything like the farmhouse. He’d expected an out of the way safehouse somewhere, some run-down apartment or overly cheerful suburban nightmare. But Natasha had landed the quinjet in idyllic farmland, big white farmhouse and faded red barn perfectly framed by the wide blue sky. He’d always just thought of Iowa as “one of those states in the middle.” But actually, Iowa was...beautiful. Or this part of it, at least. He stood at the bottom of the ramp, duffle bag slung biting into his shoulder, and he felt something loosen inside him. Not enough, not yet. But it was a start.

Barton and Natasha were arguing behind him. _About_ him, indirectly at least. Their voices were low, just above a whisper, but his ears could hear every word.

“I’m staying with you. At least overnight.”

“I’m a big boy, Nat. I don’t need you to protect me.”

There was silence then, but it was heavy, and he was sure they were still communicating. Either with glares or with sign language. He’d watched them--Natasha seemed to be fluent in both.

By the grin Clint flashed at him when he walked past, Bucky guessed he’d won the argument.

“Later, Barnes.” Natasha’s words were clipped, precise. She didn’t sound pleased.

He waved at her, got out of the way of the jet, and she was gone.

Barton was on the porch, just looking at the door. “Sorry about that. Natasha means well. She’s just...overprotective. Which is ridiculous. But we’ve been friends for so long…” He shrugged. “I’m probably overprotective of her too.”

“I get it. Steve and I are the same way. In my head...sometimes he’s still a scrawny kid, getting into fights. I think that’s who he is, deep down inside. A kid with something to prove, trying to prove it over and over. Even after all these years.”

When Bucky finished both men were quiet, but it took him over a minute to realize the silence was going on too long. He looked up to see Barton staring at him. Bucky couldn’t name the look in his eyes.

Finally he said, “What?”

Barton just shook his head, a faint smile turning up the corners of his lips. “That’s the most words I’ve ever heard you say at one time is all.”

Bucky resisted the urge to look away. “I know how to talk,” he said. He tried to keep from sounding defensive. He wasn’t sure how successful he was. “I just…” He looked around, as if the words were hiding from him and he’d find them if he looked hard enough. “I feel out of place at the Tower. Half the time I feel like I’m going to break something, and the other half I’m wondering if someone’s planning to kill me. It’s hard to have meaningful conversations--or even lighthearted ones--while you’re planning your defense and subsequent escape.”

There was a new look in Barton’s eyes. Bucky couldn’t name this one either.

“But you feel alright here?” His voice was even, steady, but there was something underlying the words. It matched the look, somehow.

“I don’t think you brought me here to kill me, Barton.” He’d meant it as a joke, but his voice wasn’t used to making those kinds of sounds. It fell flat.

“Well. That’s good to know,” Barton said. He walked into the house.

Bucky makes spaghetti.

Granted, it’s not the most complicated of meals. But he makes homemade meatballs, and adds bell peppers and onions to the sauce as well. The end result is good _and_ filling, especially with the garlic bread. He watches Barton eat, watches him enjoying his food and trying not to show it. They eat in silence, save for the scraping of silverware on plates and the thunk of glasses being returned to the worn wooden table.

When the food is gone Barton pushes his plate a few inches away from him and looks at Bucky, the battle inside his head clearly written on his face. Finally he says, “Alright. It was good. Better than good, it was delicious. You’re a much better cook than I am.”

“Was that so hard to say?”

Barton bursts into laughter.

“You look good with a smile,” he says, still laughing.

Something inside Bucky shifts. There’s a twinge, a feeling he hasn’t felt since...well, since he was young. He may still look young on the outside, but inside he’s changed. He’s not sure if he’s ready for this. He’s not even sure what _this_ is.

Before he even realizes what he’s doing he’s on his feet, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. “I’m going for a walk,” he says. He briefly sees confusion and something else--hurt?--flash across Barton’s face but before he can look too closely his body walks him through the kitchen and out the door into the night.

Air. Cool, clean air fills his lungs. It had been too hot inside, too close. Where had all the air gone? He’d been fine five minutes ago. They’d been eating, he’d been watching Barton--

Barton.

What is Barton thinking right now? Probably that Bucky’s gone crazy. He’s probably calling Steve, who will be on the quinjet in five minutes. Great experiment guys, he’ll say. Lasted all of four days.

He’s still standing in the yard when he hears the door swing open. “Bucky?”

“I’m fine,” he says. The response is automatic. He’s said it to Steve so many times in recent months it’s starting to lose meaning in Bucky’s mind, but if he thinks about it he really is, if not “fine,” then at least a bit better after standing outside for a time. So he forces himself to turn and look Barton in the eye. “I’m alright,” he says, and tries to put something into his voice that Barton will understand.

For a moment it looks like Barton is going to say something, but then he just nods and goes back into the house. Bucky lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

“This was my house once.”

Bucky looked up from his scan of the house’s interior, startled. “This isn’t a safehouse?”

“Oh, it is. Security is top-notch--sensors all around the perimeter, cameras, generators. Stark installed it himself, so I don’t know how half of it works. But I know that it’s effective, and Stark himself is just a phone call away.”

Bucky scanned the open space again, looking for any sign of Barton’s childhood. “I just meant--I thought it was _just_ a safehouse.”

Hand scrubbing at the back of his neck, Barton says, “No. I don’t...I don’t know why I told you that. I don’t actually like talking about my childhood. It wasn’t the happiest of times. Maybe that’s why I wanted you to know. Because being here, sometimes there are bad memories. Nightmares, even. Don’t want you to be surprised if I wake you up with my screams.”

Bucky shrugged. “I don’t sleep much.”

The unsaid words were heavy in the air between them. Barton had to know about Bucky’s own nightmares. He’d started out living with Steve, just for the comfort of having someone familiar nearby, but after waking up screaming too many times he’d finally asked Stark for his own rooms. His own rooms far away from everyone else, and soundproofed.

Barton just looked at him for a minute, and Bucky could almost see him thinking. Finally he said, “You don’t have to worry about waking me up in the night.” When Bucky shot him a confused look Barton tapped his ear. “I take my aids out when I sleep.” Bucky nodded, understanding. “But hey, nightmares suck. If you do have one...come wake me up. We’ll find something to do. Watch a movie. Play monopoly. Eat ice cream.”

“Ice cream?”

“Well not right now, the freezer’s probably empty. But after we do a security check and unpack we can drive into town. You supersoldiers eat a lot, and I’m no good without coffee.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

Barton raised an eyebrow.

“Honestly, Barton. Just because I’m not _chatty_ doesn’t mean I’m not _observant_.”

This startled a laugh out of him. “You’re full of surprises today, Barnes.”

Bucky can’t sleep.

His body doesn’t require as much sleep as most people, but that’s not the trouble tonight. And it’s not nightmares either.

It’s Barton.

It’s the way he laughed at the kitchen table, warm and bright. It’s the look that crossed his face when Bucky stood up to leave, a look Bucky still can’t fully process. It’s the sound of the screen door creaking when it opened, and the sound of Barton saying his name.

He’s always called him Barnes, but tonight he’d said Bucky.

He likes the sound of his name in Barton’s voice.

And there’s more. His easy smile, the way his muscles stretch when he draws his bow, that purple t-shirt he insists on wearing even though it’s so worn Bucky can almost see through it. The way he stumbles to the coffee pot in the morning and looks at Bucky like he’s the sun itself if Bucky’s got some freshly brewed. 

And somehow he understands. Or he seems to, anyway. Like the way he keeps his voice low, the way he’s not constantly asking Bucky if he’s okay or if he needs something. He gives Bucky space, but isn’t shy about asking for help. They split wood together, walk the perimeter to check the security sensors; Bucky even helped repair a damaged beam in the barn. 

Really, Barton treats Bucky like he’s a normal person.

Bucky hardly ever feels like a normal person, but it’s nice to be treated like one.

He doesn’t know what to do with these thoughts. They’re like alien things, crawling around inside his head. And the way his breath had hitched when Barton called him _Bucky_; it had been another one of those automatic reactions and he doesn’t like his body being outside his control. Part of his mind--a small, rational voice--tells him that this kind of reacting is different, that not being able to control your breath because you _like_ something is not the same as hearing a noise and almost choking the life out of a teammate. But he’s not in a reasonable state of mind, hasn’t been for decades, really. At least he knows it.

He stares out the window for hours. He watches a moth land on the screen, feathery antennae waving, waving, until it finally stills. He wonders if moths sleep, and if they dream. He doubts they have nightmares. What is there to fear if you’re a moth? Bats, maybe. Birds.

He runs a hand over the cuff of his sweatshirt. He wonders again if it had been a bad idea, grabbing it from the back of the rocking chair as he’d walked past on his way to bed. He’s not a thief. But he’d seen it there, and when he’d paused by the chair it had smelled...nice. So he’d picked it up, and when he’d gotten ready for bed instead of pulling a t-shirt over his pajama pants he’d pulled on the sweatshirt.

Barton’s sweatshirt.

It still smells nice, like grass and sun and, very faintly, of sweat. There’s something else too, a distant hint of leather. Bucky thinks it comes from the quiver Barton had been using--not the one he uses as Hawkeye, this one had been old and worn and probably sentimental.

Suddenly the room is too small. He’s on his feet and moving in an instant, and then he thinks of the ice cream in the freezer. Barton says sleepless nights are a good time for ice cream, so he’ll eat ice cream.

He’s walking through the dark living room toward the kitchen when he hears a voice from the direction of the sofa. “You had the same idea?” Bucky turns his startled motion into a spin to look and there’s Barton, holding up the carton of ice cream, the ghost of a smile on his face. “Grab a spoon,” he says. “I can share.”

Bucky’s not sure what to say, so he just gets a spoon and sits next to Barton on the sofa. “And we’re just…” he asks, not sure how to end the question.

Barton chuckles. “Get over yourself, Barnes. It’s not gonna kill you to eat out of the same ice cream carton as me.”

Something in Bucky drops at hearing the return to Barnes. Without thinking it through he says, “Bucky.”

Barton looks up, and there’s another look Bucky can’t quite grasp. “What?”

Heart for some reason beating faster than normal, Bucky says, “You called me Bucky. Earlier tonight. I think we’re becoming...familiar. Aren’t we? Barnes feels like we’re on a mission.”

“Alright,” says Barton, his voice revealing nothing. “Bucky, then.” His eyes don’t leave Bucky’s, and he adds, “But you have to call me Clint, okay?”

“Clint,” Bucky says, and the name tastes good in his mouth.

They sit side by side on the sofa, eating ice cream. The only light is the square of faded moonlight that moves across the floor as time passes. The ice cream is sweet on Bucky’s tongue. When they’d been at the grocery store Bucky had been a bit overwhelmed by all the flavors (Some of the names he didn’t even understand--who would eat something called Chunky Monkey?) so Barton (_No_, he reminds his brain, _he’s Clint now_) had chosen for them. Chocolate chip cookie dough. Bucky had been skeptical, but Clint had smiled and said, “Trust me” ...so into the shopping cart it went. And Bucky has to admit, he’d been right. 

“You’re wearing my sweatshirt,” Clint says conversationally, after a few minutes of comfortable silence.

Bucky freezes, spoon hanging midair on a return trip to the ice cream carton. He’d forgotten.

“It’s alright,” Clint says. “It just surprised me, is all.”

“I can give it back,” Bucky says, almost automatically. He can, it’s true, even if he doesn’t want to. He stands, takes a step toward his bedroom.

“Sit down, Bucky. Please.” And when Bucky looks he’s got a hand up, reaching, like he’d wanted to grab Bucky’s hand to stop him with more than words.

Oh.

So Bucky sits back down, and they eat more ice cream, and after a few minutes Bucky says, “It’s soft.”

Clint looks up, a question in his eyes.

“Your sweatshirt. It’s soft. All my clothes...Steve bought me practical things. And I have my gear for missions. None of it is built for comfort. The clothes I have are fine. They’re good. But…” He looks away, unable to bear the look in Clint’s eyes. “This just looked...soft. Comfortable.” He doesn’t add the part about it smelling nice.

Clint looks like he’s going to say something, but Bucky’s feeling too overwhelmed already. So he blurts out the first thing that pops into his head.

“Why are we sitting in the dark?”

He looks surprised. “You can see in the dark, right? I mean, not complete darkness, but you can see pretty well now, yeah?”

Bucky nods slowly. “Yeah. But you can’t.”

There’s another one of those laughs, the ones that make Bucky’s stomach flip. “It’s not target practice. I can see well enough to eat ice cream. I can see that my sweatshirt sleeves are too long for you. I can see your eyes--” He stops abruptly, and Bucky’s eyes are sharp enough to see the faint flush rise on Clint’s cheeks. Clint makes an odd, coughing sort of noise, then says, “I just thought it would be more comfortable for you. Back in the Tower, I noticed you didn’t much like to be looked at.”

Bucky laughs. “I think what you noticed was that I don’t like when a room full of people stares at me. I felt like a rat in a maze back there, with everyone just waiting for me to make a wrong turn so they could pounce.”

Clint’s answering smile is tinged with sadness. “No one wants you to fail, Bucky. I can promise you that. What you maybe don’t realize is that we’re all misfits, we all have issues of our own, and trust is a big one for most of us. I can’t promise for everyone, but I’ve got your back, alright? And, for what it’s worth, I know Steve does too.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says. He means it. It’s an inadequate word, thanks, but it’s all he’s got. Hopefully Clint understands.

They finish the ice cream in silence. Bucky thinks about Clint sitting next to him in the dark. He wonders what Clint’s thinking about.

Clint takes the spoons and the empty carton to the kitchen, muttering something about supersoldier appetites and needing two or three gallons next time they go into town. When he comes back he doesn’t stop at the sofa, walks right past to his bedroom. Bucky’s stomach drops, disappointment washing over him like a sudden summer downpour. But it’s only a few seconds later that Clint comes back, pulling a hooded sweatshirt over his head.

“Come on,” he says, looking down at his sweatshirt then winking at Bucky. “It’s cool outside, and my other one seems to be previously occupied.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to blush, but he’s fairly certain Clint can’t see well enough to notice. “I can—” he starts, but Clint waves him off.

“Can’t you tell when someone’s teasing?” He’s ahead of Bucky, but his smile comes through in his voice.

“Once upon a time,” Bucky says. “I’ll figure it out eventually.”

“We should probably go shopping, though. Because if we’re both going to wear my sweatshirts we’re going to need a few more.”

Did he just say we? Bucky almost--almost--walks into the doorframe instead of walking through the door. He is suddenly very thankful for his quick reflexes.

The yard is bright enough that Bucky has to blink several times to adjust his vision; the nearly full moon hangs low in the sky, painting everything in tones of silver. Clint’s hair practically glows.

And he’d been right, there’s a chill in the air, and the grass beneath their bare feet is wet with dew. But he walks forward with a purpose, with no hesitation, so Bucky follows.

They don’t talk. Back at the Tower everyone was always _chattering_ at him, like if they let a silence go too long Bucky would explode into it. Even Steve got that way sometimes, like he had to make up for the years he’d left Bucky with HYDRA. As if that’s Steve’s fault. But it’s different with Clint. Sometimes they talk, and sometimes they’re quiet, and either way is alright. Easy, even.

He knows they have to go back to the Tower eventually, but it’s at times like this, with wet grass under his feet and moonlight on his skin, that he wishes he could just stay here in Iowa. Maybe not forever, but long enough to see what this place looks like covered in snow. Long enough to plant something and watch it grow, to work the land and eat the fruits of his labor. He’s never actually grown anything, but he’s willing to bet he and Clint could figure it out.

The thought hits him so abruptly he just freezes; the moonlight washes all his color away so he’s an oddly posed statue placed slightly off-center in the meadow. He’s been dancing on the razor-fine edge of this idea for days, but this still feels like a revelation.

It _is_ what he wants. Not the farm, although part of him longs for an escape from the burden of being the Winter Soldier. But...Clint. To be with Clint. _That’s_ what he wants. 

As if hearing Bucky think his name Clint turns around and, seeing Bucky stopped so far behind him, calls, “You coming? It’s not far,” in a low voice. Bucky jogs to catch up, his mind racing fast as his heart.

When Clint stops Bucky wonders why, if this place in the meadow has some particular significance; all he sees is the same knee-high grass and smattering of wildflowers that covers the rest of the land around them. But there_ is_ something there: a bench, carved into the trunk of what had once been a very tall tree. The log itself is over three feet in diameter with a low bench carved out of the center. The carving isn’t intricate or fancy, but it’s been sanded smooth and coated with a shiny lacquer that gleams in the moonlight.

“You made this,” Bucky says. It isn’t a question. Even without the “C.B.” carved into the tree’s bark he would have known. There’s a precision about the work that he recognizes, even if he’s never seen Clint carve anything before.

Clint recognizes the lack of a question and says nothing. So Bucky crouches in front of the carved portion of the tree and runs a hand over the bench. “It’s beautiful,” he says, looking at Clint over his shoulder.

He almost falls over; again he’s thankful for his enhanced reflexes. Clint standing there, hands tucked into the pocket of his sweatshirt, the moon hanging over his shoulder--it’s too much. “Beautiful,” he says again, and he wonders if Clint knows he isn’t talking about the bench anymore.

Clint waves him to the bench, the easy smile back on his face. “I like to sit out here at night, when the bugs aren’t too bad. I intentionally angled the back a little bit so if you sit back you’re kind of leaning--with a better view of the stars.”

The bench is long, with enough room to hold four or five people, but by unspoken agreement they sit close together--shoulders and knees almost touching, but not quite. And Clint is right, it’s an excellent view of the stars. It’s hard to focus, though, with Clint so close Bucky can hear his heart beating. Clint’s hands rest loose on his thighs, and as Bucky eyes the hand closest to him he muses that everything would be so much easier if that hand would just reach across the gap and take hold of Bucky’s hand.

But he won’t. Bucky watches him out of the corner of his eye, thinking over the past few days, and then his months in the Tower. Clint’s never…

The words are out of his mouth before he really thinks about it. “Clint. You’ve never touched me.”

Clint’s still looking at the stars, but Bucky can see the strain on his face. “No. I haven’t.” His voice is soft, even lower than usual, and there’s an undertone of...anger?

“Why?” Bucky thinks he knows, but he needs to _hear_. 

Clint closes his eyes. “For years your body was used against your will, was used as a weapon, to accomplish whatever HYDRA wanted. They took away your memories and they took away your choice.” Eyes open now, and bright in the moonlight, he turns to look at Bucky. “I won’t take anything from you, Bucky. You have the right to choose.”

I know my choice, Bucky thinks. But is it the same as yours?

For the first time in decades he hears Steve’s voice in his head. Not Captain American, but little Stevie. _Take a risk, Buck_, he says, and Bucky can practically see the accompanying grin. _You’ll never know if you don’t try._

So when he turns to Clint, when his hand crosses the line between them, he moves slowly but deliberately, with no hesitation. Their eyes are locked, and there’s nothing in Clint’s to dissuade him, but when his fingers are a breath from Clint’s cheek he says, “Okay?”

Clint licks his lips. “Yeah, Bucky.” And still his stomach flips, just a bit, at hearing his name in Clint’s voice, but there’s no time to think about that because the pads of his fingers are just brushing Clint’s cheekbone and his skin is singing at the contact, just _singing_, and he wonders if maybe Clint is feeling the same way because his eyes are fluttering closed, lashes brushing his cheek, and this is just _hand_ on _face_, fingers threading into hair, and what are _lips_ on _lips_ going to feel like?

Bucky wants to know, and Clint does too--his eyes are open now, wide and shining, pupils blown--he looks at Bucky and says, “Please.” Just that, just please, but they both know what it means.

He doesn’t want to make Clint wait but he needs a moment--just a moment--to breathe. And he wants to be closer; they’ve turned toward each other, and his right hand is still in Clint’s hair (_jaw cheek ear hair breath-on-wrist focus brain please!_) but he’s afraid to touch with his left. He wants to slip it around to Clint’s back, or to hold that bicep he’s been watching for months, but all he can think of is the last time he touched Clint with that hand. He’d caused pain.

Clint senses his hesitation and goes straight to the center of the problem. He takes Bucky’s metal hand in his, lacing their fingers together. “It’s okay,” he says. “It’s just you.”

Bucky aches. “It’s not though. It’s _them_.” His voice breaks.

But then Clint’s other hand is on _his_ face, tangled in _his_ hair, and he can barely breathe.

“No,” Clint says. And then stronger, “_No_. Yeah, they gave you crazy serum. They gave you a super strong metal arm. But that’s _not_ who you are. It’s what you do with yourself, the choices you make, that’s what defines who you are. And I’ve been watching you, Bucky Barnes. I’ve seen the choices you make.” He pulls Bucky in so their foreheads are touching. “You’re a good man,” he says. “A good man.”

Bucky’s vision blurs, and for a moment he doesn’t understand, but then he blinks and a tear runs down his cheek. “Oh,” he says, momentarily bewildered.

And then he laughs.

Clint looks so confused that Bucky laughs harder. “I’m sorry,” he says, catching his breath. “I just thought to myself, ‘what a fucking awful time to cry,’ and that seemed very funny, so I laughed, and then I thought, ‘it’s probably a worse time to laugh,’ and I saw the look on your face and I knew I was right, which made me laugh even harder.” By the time he finishes Clint is laughing too, they’re leaning into each other, shoulders and elbows and knees and chests and Bucky’s sides are aching from laughing but it’s the best he’s felt in so long, he thinks he could laugh with Clint forever, and then that thought is gone, erased, because the laughter disappears when their mouths find each other under that summer moon. The sound of laughter stops but the joy continues to grow; Bucky can feel it on his skin, wrapping itself around them like a warm breeze.

The sweetness of the ice cream still lingers on Clint’s lips, and Bucky decides then and there that chocolate chip cookie dough is his favorite flavor. The heavy scent of grass is in his nose, when he thinks to take a breath. Grass and...mangos. Clint’s shampoo. He wonders for a moment if starlight has a smell, but dismisses the thought. Now is not the time. Now is the time for hands and lips and ears and necks and oh that’s good, he makes noises when I kiss his neck.

At some point he’d climbed onto Clint’s lap. He doesn’t remember doing this, but he must have done, because here he is. Clint doesn’t seem to mind; on the contrary, he’s got both hands in Bucky’s hair and Bucky couldn’t pull their mouths apart if he wanted to. Well, yes he actually could. But the fact of the matter is he doesn’t want to. He wants to stay exactly where he is.

People talk about kisses--especially first kisses--as being electrical, full of sparks and fireworks and explosions. In some ways this is true; the feeling of lips pressing together causes reactions, racing hearts, trembling hands. But for Bucky, kissing Clint brings a stillness he thought he’d lost forever. Clint’s lips pressed against his own feel like peace, feel like home.

Bucky’s not sure how long they stay there, mouths and hands exploring, discovering sensitive places, drawing reactions. When Clint’s hand strays under the edge of Bucky’s sweatshirt his he draws in a sharp breath, shuddering. Clint pulls his hand back and gives him a questioning look, and Bucky blushes. “Ticklish,” he mumbles.

And then Clint is laughing again, loud whoops of laughter that leave Bucky rolling his eyes but fighting the urge to smile. When he finds breath he grins at Bucky, kissing the fierce red spots on his cheeks. “I just can’t believe the Winter Soldier is ticklish.”

Bucky growls, but it’s playful, and Clint’s eyes dance. “Alright, _Hawkeye_. You want to play that way?” With no warning he shifts sideways and rolls off the bench, taking Clint with him. He controls the roll, landing on his shoulder and continuing over until Clint is on his back with Bucky on all fours above him, knees trapping Clint’s thighs, hands pressing Clint’s into the dewy grass. Clint’s breath comes in sharp, quick gasps, and Bucky allows himself a moment to marvel. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, this man looking up at him with eyes blazing with heat and trust, who laughs freely and kisses sometimes sharp as the point of his arrow, exquisite and deep, and sometimes soft as the feathers that guide the way.

And then the moment is over, and Bucky growls again. Clint struggles a bit beneath him, but it’s in jest; he ruins it with a wink. “Playing again, are we?” Bucky says, teasing, and begins kissing his way up and down Clint’s neck. He grazes lightly with his teeth, sucks bruises into the sensitive skin. Clint rewards him with groans, and pleas and, at one point, whimpers. He doesn’t want Clint to feel trapped, so he lets go of his hands, digging into the grass instead. Clint buries his own hands in Bucky’s hair, tugging until Bucky’s mouth is slotted with his again.

“Bucky,” Clint breathes, barely breaking the kiss to speak. “Oh sweetheart, I could kiss you forever.”

Yes, Bucky thinks, yes yes yes. Just like this, with grass and stars and whatever is making that noise and oh, that might be me.

And suddenly it is all so much, maybe almost too much. He pulls away suddenly, sits up, breath ragged. He looks at Clint, almost afraid, expecting to see hurt, or even anger--but all he sees is concern, and there is a lightness inside his chest at the sight.

“Bucky,” Clint says again, but this time he’s sitting up, reaching out to carefully take Bucky’s hands in his. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he says, and it’s true. “I just...can I…” Clint squeezes his hands, and Bucky looks into his eyes. “Can we just take a breath?”

“Yeah. Yes. Sure. Of course.” Then Clint laughs, leaning down to press his forehead into Bucky’s shoulder. “I think you made me forget how to talk.”

“If you could only hear my thoughts.” Bucky says dryly. “At one point I was just listing body parts and yelling at my brain to focus.”

“Body parts?”

“Yeah, you know, ‘cheek neck hair wrist oh god I can feel his breath on my skin brain don’t quit on me now.’ That kind of thing.”

Clint pulls Bucky’s right hand to his lips, kissing his palm and then the inside of his wrist, intentionally exhaling gently against his skin. Bucky shivers.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, his breath catching in his throat. “That’s pretty much it.”

Clint laughs. “I can relate,” he says. Then he nods at the bench. “Want to sit up there again?”

Bucky answers by standing and pulling Clint to his feet. They keep their hands clasped as they sit, and Bucky’s head leans against Clint’s shoulder. “It’s so beautiful out here,” he says. “I don’t know how you ever leave it.”

“It is beautiful,” Clint agrees, but there’s a thread of darkness--or maybe it’s sadness--in his voice that he cannot hide. “I’ve always loved this place. The sky, the rippling grass, the scent of growing things, the feel of dirt between my fingers. But my dad—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “It was always beautiful, but it wasn’t always good. There’s a difference.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to comfort without words--he knows there’s nothing he can say to erase the pain of the past. So he squeezes Clint’s hand, rubs tiny circles with the pad of his thumb, and he feels at a small amount of tension ease. It’s not much, but it’s something.

For a time they just listen to the sound of night--crickets, tree frogs, the rustling sounds of the nocturnal creatures making their way through the darkness. Bucky starts to think about late nights in the Tower, about how in his soundproof rooms all he hears is his own breath unless he turns on music or the tv, and if he goes wandering (Steve calls it skulking) he jumps at every tiny scrape or squeak. Out here it’s so much louder and yet he can’t remember the last time he felt so relaxed, so at peace.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

“Bringing me here. Knowing what I needed. Taking a chance.”

Clint turns his head enough to kiss Bucky’s forehead. “I’ve done some healing here myself from time to time. And it’s good to know a place that witnessed so much heartache can witness healing too. Maybe even love.”

There’s a roaring in Bucky’s ears at this last.

_Love_.

“Sorry,” Clint says.

Bucky recoils. He can’t help it.

“I don’t mean—” He turns to face Bucky, tangles his hands in Bucky’s hair, tugs until they are eye to eye. “I meant every word I said, sweetheart. I’m only sorry it scared you--I can see it scared you, oh Bucky I’m so sorry--because I don’t want you to run away from me, or to feel pressured. Alright?” He kisses Bucky’s forehead, then buries his face in Bucky’s neck.

He feels--numb. He wants to move his arms, to hold Clint, to do something, but it’s like his brain and his body don’t connect at the moment.

Love. He can’t remember the last time someone spoke that word to him. It had been another life, another Bucky. He knows Steve loves him--Steve is his brother, with him to the end of the line. And he loves Steve. But it’s not something either one of them has ever had to _say_. They just know.

“No pressure,” Clint says, and Bucky can feel the words against his throat.

His limbs thaw, and he pulls Clint (somehow) closer. “Love is...a memory. So far away I barely remember what it means. I love Steve because he’s my brother, but I don’t think that’s what you mean, and even that is almost just...habit. I don’t mean to make it sound meaningless--it’s the opposite, actually. It’s that he’s been my brother for so long that to stop loving him would be about as easy as to make the blood in my veins flow backward, or to make my eyes learn how to taste instead of see.”

He takes in the sky full of stars, now fading with the coming of dawn, the tickle of grass under his bare feet, the sound of Clint’s heartbeat trying to mesh with his own, and he hopes he isn’t about to lose these things he’s come to realize are a new part of him. “But to _love _another, to _be loved _by someone in return…” He closes his eyes, breathes. “It’s foreign. Unimaginable.”

Clint starts to pull away, but Bucky holds tighter. “Please don’t,” he murmurs. Clint presses closer, and Bucky just lets himself _feel_. Finally he says, “That doesn’t mean I can’t learn.”

Clint lets out a ragged breath, which turns into an almost laugh. “I’m a good teacher,” he says. “I teach archery to kids sometimes, when I’ve got extra time and I’m not too injured.”

It’s Bucky’s turn to laugh, though his is short and somewhat pained. “I’ve noticed you have a tendency to spend a lot of time in medical. Do you intentionally dive into the most troublesome situations or do they just find you?”

“Unlike all the rest of you, _I_ don’t have any superpowers. Unless you count being super sexy. In that case I’m the most powerful of us all.”

Bucky hums in agreement. “Have you ever had someone just surrender to you?” He adopts a ridiculous falsetto voice. “_I give up, Hawkeye. Take me to prison. Just please stand there a few minutes longer with your bow drawn so I can look at those pecs._”

Clint snorts. “Right. Have you seen _you_? I think I’ve got competition in the Sexiest Avenger Competition.” He mimes brushing strands of hair out of his eyes.

“I think you’re forgetting about Steve and Tony,” says Bucky, his voice dry. “I’m pretty sure they’d do a good job of fighting for number one.”

And soon they’re laughing again, picturing Tony and Steve in a Miss America type pageant. “I don’t even want to think of Tony in the talent portion,” Clint says, still laughing. “He’d probably try to do ten things at once. Completely manic, he is. Trouble is, it somehow works for him.”

“What about the interviews? No interviewer would be safe from their charms, man _or_ woman.”

“Probably couldn’t even ask the questions.”

“Tony would just ramble on about himself, no need for questions. And Steve would stand politely, say things like, ‘It’s okay, ma’am, I can wait.’”

Clint squeezes Bucky’s hand. “You sure you’re alright? I really didn’t mean to get so seri—”

Bucky stops the word with a kiss. “Stop apologizing.”

“But—”

Another kiss. “Stop.” Kiss. “Apologizing.”

He looks like he’s going to start again, but the look on Bucky’s face apparently gives him second thoughts. After a minute he smiles his easy smile and says, “Alright. But you have to promise to tell me if I’m being too pushy, or going too fast. Deal?”

Bucky pretends to consider, but it’s an easy agreement to make. “Deal. But I don’t think I have to worry about it. You wouldn’t even touch me until I gave you permission.”

It’s Clint’s turn to kiss him, slow and deep, and Bucky’s stomach flips again. When Clint pulls away he nods toward the sky. “Sun’s starting to come up. If we go sit on the porch there’s a nice view of the sunrise.”

Bucky nods. They twine their fingers together and walk back to the farmhouse, the wildflowers in the grass bent, heavy with dew. Into the quiet, Bucky asks, “Why were you eating ice cream in the dark?”

“I told you, I was being considerate of your—”

“No. You were already sitting in the dark eating ice cream when I got up.”

“Ah. You noticed that.”

“I’m observant.”

Clint scrubs his free hand through his hair, making it stick out in all directions. “You were clearly worked up about something after dinner. I knew you weren’t going to be able to sleep. I figured you’d remember I suggested ice cream...really it was just a matter of timing. I had to hope you’d come out before I ate all the whole gallon myself.”

“It was an ambush!”

“No! Not an ambush, more like a—”

“Seduction?”

“Yeah. No!” Clint hides his face in Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky’s working hard to keep his laughter in.

“Honestly, Bucky, I had no plans to infringe on your...your _virtue_ tonight. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been _thinking_ about it for awhile, but…”

At this Bucky can’t hold back anymore. His laugh is loud and bright, echoing in the wide open space of the meadow.

Clint pokes him in the ribs. “You had to let me go on and on?”

“More fun that way,” he says, still chuckling.

There’s a swing on the porch; Bucky’s afraid it won’t hold both of them but Clint assures him it’s stronger than it looks. They lean against one another, fingers intertwined, slowly rocking. They don’t speak, just watch as the sky turns pink, then orange, then yellow-white.

They sky has long turned blue when Clint suddenly says, “You’re keeping my sweatshirt.”

Bucky looks at him, startled; Clint just grins. “I’ll never look half as good in that sweatshirt as you do right now. Besides, I think purple’s your color.”

**Author's Note:**

> The greatest thing you'll ever learn  
is just to love and be loved in return.  
_Nature Boy_  
-Nat King Cole


End file.
